joannebest











{June 26, 2013}   My Harsh Muse Returns

evilbadmuse
“You know you’re gonna screw it up.”
Her voice comes out of nowhere, loud enough to rattle the windows.
Shit. She’s back.
And I’ve been outed.
As in shine-your-light-on-me-Miss-Liberty-outed.
As in all-eyes-on-me-outed.
As in oh-fuck-what-now-outed.
“You can’t just thrust yourself into the middle of something all willy-nilly and expect results Missy.”
Each word is another bullet shattering my spine leaving me paralyzed.
I glance at the chapter I’d just spent hours writing and lose every ounce of confidence I had.
She was right.
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”
She waves her hand lazy in my direction as if she’s swatting away an annoying fly and I find myself face-down and naked on an unfamiliar carpet in my own living room.
She towers over me, one sharp spiked heel pressed painfully against my spine somewhere between my 4th and 5th vertebra.
I bite my lip to keep silent.
“No pain no gain chica,” she howls gleefully as she drags me slow from one side of the room to the other.
Her claw-like fingernails dig painfully into my scalp, drops of my blood fall like red teardrops.
My mouth tastes of copper pennies dipped in salt and I wonder where my clothes went.
I feel my flesh peeling back layer by layer, my bare skin stinging as she drags me face-down across the scratchiest rug I’ve ever felt. Talk about rug-burn-
“Rug-burn is what separates the men from the boys chica,” she interrupts me mid-thought, “Now get in position and give me 20.”
Her lovely manicured hand comes down and slaps me once, twice, three times across my bottom.
“You can’t even make yourself say ass you pathetic whining fool.”
She leans into me, sharply yanking my head back as she says this and I squirm in embarrassment, uncomfortable in the knowledge that she’s right.
“How many times do we have to go over this? I’m always right.”
Unexpectedly she releases her grip in disgust and I scramble away from her till I can’t go any further.
I find myself backed into a corner at the end of the hallway, the full length mirror reflecting back a nightmare.
Her leather-clad foot taps out a beat on the now hardwood floor, her arms folded, loathing in her eyes. Or maybe the loathing was in my own eyes.
“You,” she spits out, “are a fool. And you know what they say about fools and mirrors.”
At my blank look she rolls her eyes.
“Look it up,” she sneers, “and while you’re at it, look at your own self. Your half hearted efforts disgust me.”
I try to look at myself in the mirror and see nothing but bottomless chaos.
“Hey, this wasn’t my idea,” I attempt to reason with her, “and you’re the one who keeps disappearing.”
It’s true too, my muse always seems to disappear when I need her most.
“What is this,the blame-game?”
She hates when I dare to question her authority.
“There’s not a damn thing gonna turn out right if you don’t start taking some responsibility missy.” Her voice took on a decided chill, disappointment dripping from every syllable.
“When did you become so complacent,” she asked coldly.
A growing layer of frost forms over my entire body at her words.
“Truth hurts, don’t it chica?”
Her voice is like stale smoke.
I find it hard to catch my breath as her words began to swirl around me tornado-like.
“Bad enough you’ve bored me for so long, now you’re going for the masses?”
I hate when she’s right.
brokem
you can read more about my muse if the link i tried to add worked, but if it didn’t, My Muse Can Be A Harsh Mistress is over —-> there somewhere and as usual, to be continued

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This is a great post! I love how you personify your muse



Thanks but i can’t take the credit, it’s all her 😉



Very good!



Thank you! And thank you for commenting 🙂



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